It was correct in its broad essential, but it missed the pathos, the tragedy even of the conclusions I myself had reached. After Martha left Drogo Hall Harry sank fast, I believe, which is not surprising, given how little he had to cleave to, those final days. Martha had been his last hope, the one true prop or strut to which he might have clung in his extremity, and she had fled him. This then was what he had come to, he had driven away all who had once been his friends, nor had he any clear prospect of regaining his footing and rising from the depths. He wandered the streets of London, his only buttress against encroaching darkness his own frail will.But even after he had taken to the streets I saw him returning time and again to the Lambeth Marsh, to search for Martha in the boggy fields around Drogo Hall; and failing to find her, unable, in his grief, to believe that she had left him, unable even to contemplate the idea. I saw him sitting all night in the graveyard behind the church, rocking back and forth, keening with misery for his lost child, and when I thought of Harry keening I heard the wolves in the forest behind Black Brock.
